


Language Barrier

by WeaglesAndBrobeans



Series: A Very Capitals Collection [1]
Category: NHL - Fandom, RPF Hockey, Washington Capitals - Fandom
Genre: Bleeding, Canon-Typical Violence, Confusion, Head Injury, Injury, Protective, Swedish, concussion, hockey injury, translation aid
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-29
Updated: 2018-10-31
Packaged: 2019-08-09 18:54:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,593
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16455440
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WeaglesAndBrobeans/pseuds/WeaglesAndBrobeans
Summary: As Nicky slowed to a stop and dropped to his knees by his fellow Swede, he could hear the kid whimpering and complaining in Swedish. It all fell into place. The trainers were struggling through the language barrier.The alternate captain leaned forward so his mouth was near his rookie’s head. “Christian?” He all but whispered. “Vad gör ont? (What hurts?)”





	1. Gör ont

**Author's Note:**

> I lived in France for over a year and while I grew in competency of language, it evaded me in moments of stress, anxiety, or pressure. I’ve always thought about how difficult it would be to communicate with a trainer if a foreigner was dealing with a head injury early on in their career.  
> I’m pretty sure Djoos was quite competent in his inaugural season as far as English is concerned, but bear with me as this is in fact a work of fiction.  
> I also do not speak Swedish at all. This is pure google translate, so sorry.

“The puck gets sent down the near wall- gathering it is Carlson who reverses it towards Djoos and Oh! Boyle just hammered Djoos into the end boards and he is, I think he’s out!”

Christian Djoos lay face down on the cold unforgiving ice where he’d crumpled as the world spun chaotically around him. His head ached with the reverberating din of a constant buzzing. His neck and shoulders throbbed; nearly every muscle in his body seemed to spasm, pulsing again and again as it reeled from the shock of the blow. 

He could feel the jostle of teammates and opponents grappling above him as John Carlson in particular defended his honor. It was nearly impossible to focus, but he was pretty confident he could hear the veteran defenseman screaming what was sure to be threats. 

The steady hand of a trainer gripped the back of his jersey before the man leaned in and began to ask questions. But it was muddled and confusing. Djoos swallowed thickly only to gag as a mouthful of blood drained down his throat. Alarms began to join the buzzing in his head. Everything hurt. And he couldn’t figure out what the trainer was asking. The man kept speaking, but Djoos couldn’t quite sift through it all. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t understand. His breath was growing more rapid. Christian Djoos was panicking. 

“Gör ont (hurts)” he moaned. “Gör ont.” Christian tried to curl in on himself, to fight against the nausea and ache, but the trainer firmed his grip and said something else. It was all nonsense. “Mitt huvud. Det gör ont. (My head. It hurts),” Djoos whimpered. “fan (expletive),” he whined before spitting more blood onto the ice. 

As the trainer attempted to get through to Djoos, the refs finally dispersed the irate group of hockey players. In the quiet that followed a sense of dread swept through the Capitals. Their rookie defenseman lay unmoving. A pool of blood grew beneath his head. It was unnerving to say the least. The trainer had already waved for doctors and a stretcher, but something seemed to be holding things up. 

Nicklas Backstrom had been actively trying not to hover by helping clear out the yard sale that had taken place on the ice in lieu of the fight. He’d just handed Carlson his gloves over in the penalty box when the ref called his name. Nicky jolted in surprise when he realized the trainer wanted him over by the injury.

Injuries weren’t unusual in this sport that he loved so dearly, but there was always a sting when a teammate was hurting to this extent. As Nicky slowed to a stop and dropped to his knees by his fellow Swede, he could hear the kid whimpering and complaining in Swedish. It all fell into place. The trainers were struggling through the language barrier. 

The alternate captain leaned forward so his mouth was near his rookie’s head. “Christian?” He all but whispered. “Vad gör ont? (What hurts?)”

The slender young man spat more blood on the ice before groaning once more, “Mitt huvud.” Nicky looked to the trainer and translated. They set into a quiet rhythm of trainers asking follow up questions and Nicky interpreting for both. At some point, the veteran’s hand had found itself at the back of Christian’s head, softly stroking as he spoke in gentle encouraging tones. The group of trainers, doctors, and paramedics worked in tandem to carefully load the tall defenseman onto a backboard and then stretcher. 

Djoos was clearly suffering from the head trauma. He was currently sucking on a towel as it turned a sickly pink color from all the blood it absorbed. He’d bitten his tongue as he fell to the ice. As the medics elevated the stretcher and the arena resounded with the support of the fans, Nicky turned to the head trainer. “Do I go?” 

The Swede was obviously torn, eyes drifting from his rookie back to the bench. He would absolutely tear off his skates and climb into the ambulance in his taped up socks, but he also had a commitment to finish this game out and lead his team. 

Smiling softly, the trainer shook his head. “We already contacted a translator at the hospital. He’ll be in good hands.”

Nicky nodded and then turned to face the open bay doors where his ailing teammate was exiting the rink. He tapped his stick in support before drifting towards his captain.

“He be okay?” whispered Ovi. “Yeah, he’ll be okay. But we fuckin ruin those Devils. For Djoos.”  
Ovi, eyes as focused as Nicky had ever seen them, nodded. “For Djoos.”


	2. Cervical Radioshittery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Hey Djoos,” Nicky greeted, voice toned down even more than usual. “How are you holding up?” 
> 
> Christian swung his tired eyes from the crown of Andre’s head over to the man in the doorway. “I’m okay Papa,” came a feeble whisper in response. Nicky’s eyes narrowed skeptically. The lack of actual movement gave the rookie away before his slurred words had a chance to.

The darkness of the room told Nicky what the nurse outside had refused to – concussion. 

He hadn’t rushed over after the game, choosing to give Andre a solid lead. The curly haired Swede had made a hasty exit that night, nervous about the health of his dear friend. Nicky recalled approaching the jittery forward as he hunched over an elevated foot to tie his shoes. Andre’s hands trembled with nervous anticipation, but he stilled when his mentor laid a steady hand on his own. “No news is good news Andre.” Andre’s chin gave a jerky nod before zeroing back in on his shoelaces. It took more time than it should have, but eventually Andre managed to knot a bow on his shiny dress shoes. Standing up, Andre eyed Nicky with apprehension, clearly noting that the veteran wasn’t anywhere near ready to leave- towel hung low on his waste, hair dripping water onto his shoulders, feet bare. A wry smile crept onto Nicky’s face. “You go ahead Bura, I’ll be over soon.” That permission was all Andre needed before he had practically bolted from the locker room.

That had been nearly forty minutes ago. Now as Nicky’s eyes adjusted to the dim room, he found himself thankful for the decision he’d made. It was a bitter-sweet sight. Christian Djoos sat propped in a narrow hospital bed, tiny enough to make the smaller Swede look broad. Dark shadows of bruising had begun to trail down his forehead from the impact of the hit he’d taken. Ice packs were pillowed around his neck, nestled against his shoulders. His head lulled to the side, eyes at half-mast but pointedly observing the man at his side. 

Curled into the injured hockey player was Andre Burakovsky. His head tucked into Djoos’ left shoulder, torso molded to the defenseman’s side at an awkward angle due to the placement of his chair by Christian’s hips. His arm wrapped over his friend’s waist possessively as he slept. 

Nicky coughed awkwardly to announce his presence and stepped further into the room. “Hey Djoos,” Nicky greeted, voice toned down even more than usual. “How are you holding up?” 

Christian swung his tired eyes from the crown of Andre’s head over to the man in the doorway. “I’m okay Papa,” came a feeble whisper in response. Nicky’s eyes narrowed skeptically. The lack of actual movement gave the rookie away before his slurred words had a chance to. 

“I could ask the doctor,” he threatened. “But let me guess. Shades drawn, lights off- concussion. Slurred speech, eyes tired – a relatively severe concussion. Ice packs around the neck, is it whip lash, or something more?”

Christian Djoos whined petulantly, lips settling into a pout. “Yeah, I fucking broke my brain okay?” Nicky’s eyebrows shot up at the attitude. Djoos was usually more reserved, more cautious in tone and word choice – he reflected Nicky in this way. Then again, concussions often induced mood swings. 

“Yeah and he’s got cervical radioshittery!” joined in a sleepy Andre who had apparently awoken to join the conversation. The unfamiliar (and clearly inaccurate) medical terminology had Nicky’s shoulders tensing in concern. “He has what?”

“Cervical radicalpansy!”

Nicklas stared. “Are you planning on speaking Swedish Andre or are you going to continue on in this bullshit attempt at medical vernacular?” The brunette blushed deeply. His mouth opened to protest before snapping shut with no defense. 

Djoos was staring at his friend as well, but fondly rather than irately. “It’s a pinched nerve,” he clarified, his words coming out compressed and lazy due to the heavy slurring. “Doc says I have a her, a hern, a disc that’s torn.”

“A herniated disc?” asked Nicky. Andre nodded enthusiastically as Christian gave a soft affirmation. “Will it need surgery?” 

Nicky sighed in relief when Djoos said no. Spinal injuries were serious. The last thing he wanted was to see his rookie lose out on the dream when he’d only just made it to the show. “Good.” Backstrom stepped closer and trailed his fingers softly over the pale skin of Christian’s cheek. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Have Bura text me a list of everything you need. Rest up okay?” 

Christian leaned ever so slightly into the palm of Nicky’s hand. “Okay.” His eyes slipped lower and lower as the veteran cradled his head, soothing with his thumb running circles over his cheekbone. When Djoos finally slipped into dreamland, Nicky glanced over to Andre who was watching them, eyes soft. “Take care of yourself too. I’ll kill you myself if I find you haven’t left that chair by the time I return.”

Andre grinned sheepishly. “Okay Papa. I promise.”

As Nicklas Backstrom walked back into the cool night air outside of the hospital, he felt a surge of affection for his boys, for this family he’s formed. Djoos had a painful road ahead, but that’s just it. He still had a road ahead.


End file.
